Kill All Enemies by Melvin Burgess
‘I know you don’t play. I know you’re not into metal as such. That doesn’t matter. We play. Chris, what we want to ask you is – will you be our manager?’
My jaw just dropped. Manager? Me? Is this what happens when you do people favours? They want to own you for the rest of your life, doing them more favours? I couldn’t believe it. I was standing there thinking, What? Manage your band? You must be joking. I’d rather give birth to a wolverine than manage your band.
My brain was shouting at me: No way! Tell them to go away, tell them your mum is paralysed from the waist down, tell them you can’t add up – anything! Just say no. NO! NO! NO!
And my mouth said, ‘I’d be honoured, man.’
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! howled my brain.
‘Really. It’s great. I’d love to,’ said my mouth. And they all started whooping and hugging and crying, and the odd thing was, I was whooping and hugging and crying along with them. Weird. It was, like, I know nothing. I’m not even the same person I thought I was.
One of the lads went out and bought loads of beer and someone had some weed, and we had a party. The band played – even I played and I can’t play. As I got drunker I stopped listening to all the duff notes and the jangly chords and stuff, and I started to listen to the sound. So they aren’t much good yet – so what? They can learn. I bet Oasis weren’t much good when they started out. I bet their parents hated the noise they made. Or Beethoven. I bet when Beethoven started playing the piano his mum said to him, ‘Ludwig, give it up – you’re deaf.’
Anyone can get good. You just have to practise. KAE had something else: energy. They were real. They were like a thousand tons of rock coming down the mountain straight for you. It made your hair stand on end … once you’d had a few drinks.
Maybe, I thought, just maybe, this could actually work.
It wasn’t till ages later, when I was on my way home, that I suddenly thought, You know what? I’ve got a job. More than that – I’ve actually got something I want to do. I never thought about it before, but my whole life up till then was just practice. Even eBay. I was just spending my time avoiding the things I didn’t want to do and filling up the spaces with football and hanging out and … games. But this was real. I belonged to something. Those guys knew who I was and what I was about. They got it. When they said, ‘Respect,’ they meant it. OK, so they were hairy and covered in studs, and I wore trainers and sports gear, but I was already more like them than I ever would be like Alex. Or Dad. Or anyone else I knew.
Respect.
I thought, I’m not going to be able to find time for school now, even if I wanted to.
Billie
It was a Saturday night. I’d been there for ages, over a week. It was working out. Cookie was on lates that night – the place where he works stays open till about twelve on a Friday and Saturday. I was looking forward to it. A night on me own, in front of the telly. I had a bath, a good old soak, found myself a film, settled down … there’s a key in the door. Well, who’s that? Only bloody Jez and a couple of his mates.
‘Cookie’s out,’ I told them.
‘Is he? We bought some booze and stuff,’ said Jez.
‘No, he’s not here. I was going to have a night in.’
‘He won’t mind,’ said Jez. In they all came. I could have cried. They knew bloody well he wasn’t there. Spending the night with Jez and his creepy mates was the last thing I wanted, but there was nothing I could do about it. We all knew, if I rang Cookie and asked him, he’d back Jez up. He always does. Cookie gave him a key ages ago. He doesn’t even live here, what’s he got a key for? It’s stupid. He just does whatever Jez tells him. It drives me mental.
There were three or four of them – Jez, this lad called Staffs, and a couple of others. There was nothing for it. They were going to be there all night now. They’d wait up for Cookie until he got back and then he’d want some. I was going to be up all night out of my head with a bunch of losers.
I went on the voddie and orange, but I was taking it easy. I didn’t want to lose it with this lot around. It tasted a bit strong so I sneaked out and poured a bit away and watered it down. Then, a bit later, I put the glass on a stack of CDs and spilt it all down the CDs. Cookie would have gone bonkers – he loves his music – so I wiped it up with my sleeve and went into the kitchen to get another without telling anyone. I’d only had about half.
And then, then I was on my way back into the front room, and I was staggering. You know? Like, out of it already. I was thinking, What’s up with me? I hadn’t had anything, just half of one voddie, so what was I doing staggering?
‘I’m going already,’ I said to Staffs, who was behind me.
‘Aye, he mixes them strong, Jez,’ said Staffs, and he gave me this look, this funny look.
We sat around listening to music and talking a bit. I remember getting up to look for a CD and the way they all laughed when I lurched across the room. I was falling down. I went back to park myself on the sofa, but … I hadn’t even finished one drink. How could I be so drunk already?
Then it went blurry. I was on the sofa snogging Jez. I don’t know how it happened. Then suddenly it wasn’t Jez, it was Staffs, and then he was feeling me up. And someone was fiddling with my top and trying to get their hand down my pants, and …
I sat up and pushed them off and I was thinking, This is wrong. I don’t do that. I’m with Cookie. I might be rubbish, but I’m not getting shared out like a pack of jelly beans. And I’d only drunk a little bit … and all the other blokes were in the room as well, watching it …
I started to panic then, because I was so out of it there was nothing I could do. That’s how it felt – like there was nothing I could do about it. I got up and went to the loo, not that I needed to go, but I wanted some head space. I got in there and splashed some water on my face, trying to wake up. I was so out of it. I sat down, and I was thinking, This is wrong, this is all wrong, I’m not that drunk, I can’t be.
And of course, at the back of my head, I knew what it was already. I’d been spiked, hadn’t I? I’d been spiked, and that shit Jez and his useless mates were going to take turns with me.
I was the night’s entertainment.
I was thinking, This can’t be true, this can’t be happening to me. This isn’t how you get raped. You get held down and you shout and you scream, and you fight. You get beat up. You don’t just lie back on the settee and watch it happen to you. You don’t go to bed and forget about it overnight.
Sod this.
I stood up, tried the window. It was open, but I couldn’t climb out. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get my leg up high enough. I kept falling down. I staggered out of the loo and into the passage, trying to keep quiet. The living-room door was closed and there was music and laughter going on in there, but I still had enough sense not to go down the hall in case I banged about and they heard me. I turned round and went into the kitchen at the back. Back door, locked. I didn’t realize at first. I just tugged, then I wasted more time trying to find the key, but it was a bolt all the time. Then I wasted more time fumbling with that …
The bastard, he must have been watching me for ages. I’d just eased the door open when an arm shot out and banged it shut.
Jez.
‘Not leaving the party, Billie?’ he said.
‘I wanna go,’ I said, trying to push him out of the way.
‘Not yet,’ he told me. He flicked the bolt back across. I watched stupidly. I just couldn’t move at any speed at all. Then he took my arm and started to lead me back into the living room. My feet just patted along like a good girl doing as she was told. And the thing was I almost didn’t care. Almost. I almost could have let him lead me back into the living room so I could get raped. Who knows – I might not even remember it, so who cared …
But I did care. I wedged my arms against the living-room door.
‘Kitchen,’ I muttered. ‘Left
‘What?’ he asked.
‘… Moment …’ I said, and pushed my way back. And the bastard, he let me get all the way to the back door, and he let me faff around and undo the bolt and start to open it again before he came up behind. I heard him coming, I tried to hurry, but I couldn’t.
Then he jammed his hand down on the door and shut it hard again.
I turned to look up at him. And he looked at me and I looked at him. And he knew. He knew I knew and I knew he knew.
‘Didn’t finish your drink, did you?’ he asked me.
‘… Spiked me drink,’ I said.
He shook his head. As if. He’d never admit it. He was too much of a coward. We stood there looking at each other a moment. Behind us there was a bell at the front door. He glanced over his shoulder at it.
‘Couple more mates,’ he told me, and he raised his eyebrow and winked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘Please don’t, Jez.’
He shook his head again. He stood back. ‘Come on, love. It’s OK.’
‘It’s not OK!’
He shook his head again. ‘Come on, Billie,’ he said. ‘You never minded before …’
‘I never knew before,’ I said, but even as I was speaking I thought, Before? This has happened before?
Jez was watching me, smiling. He nodded. ‘You liked it, Billie. You loved it. I watched you. I watched you enjoying it all night.’
I was trying to think … It was Rohypnol or something, wasn’t it? Date rape. You don’t know, you don’t even remember it the next day. And he was saying it had happened before?
‘You lying bastard,’ I said. ‘I don’t believe you. I’d know. I’d’ve been sick for days just from touching you. Now let me go …’
I tried to push him away, but he just stood there. I was so weak I could hardly move myself, let alone him.
‘What about Cookie? He’s supposed to be your mate,’ I said.
Jez sort of looked to one side and shook his head. ‘Cookie don’t mind, Billie. He don’t mind sharing his things with his mates.’
‘I’m not his thing …’
I tried to push him out of the way, but his arm on the door was like a tree – I couldn’t budge it.
‘Cookie wouldn’t do this to me,’ I said, and I started to cry.
‘Never mind Cookie.’
Staffs had got to the front door by this time and let them in. Voices in the hall. Music. It all sounded underwater, but sort of normal. But it wasn’t normal. It was way off being normal. I turned back to the door, but there was his arm, leaning down hard.
Jez bent down close to me. ‘Think you’re so tough, don’t you?’ he said. ‘But you’re not at the moment, are you, Billie? Not tough at all.’ He shook his head. Then he smiled. ‘Anyways, you might as well. Have another drink. You won’t remember it. I’ll keep an eye on things, make sure no one’s too rough. Come on. Be a sport, Billie. What’s wrong with you, love?’ He took his arm out of the way and nodded at the door.
I stayed where I was.
‘Money,’ I said.
Jez rolled his eyes. Like, you know – why should I pay when I can get it for free?
‘How much?’ he asked. He put his hand to his pocket and leaned back.
I knew I was only going to get one go at it. I was lining him up, trying not to look at his crotch, taking my time, lining it up. I waited until he glanced down at his hand – then I launched my foot like a rocket.
It was perfect. He sank down without a noise like a sheet of wet newspaper. I turned round. It was all in slow motion. I fumbled at the door. It was just a bolt, but I couldn’t get it. I could hear the other lads coming down the hall. He must have made more noise than I thought. Then I realized why it wasn’t working – it was already open. He’d just slammed it shut. I yanked the door open, tumbled into the yard and slammed it behind me. Ran across the yard. Crawled on to a wall between his and his neighbour’s yard. The door opened and they all burst out.
I lay on the wall for a moment. I looked at them; they looked at me. Then I rolled over and fell down hard to the ground on the other side. It was all I could do. Then I just lay there and waited.
‘Shit,’ someone said.
There was a pause. ‘Bloody hell, Jez, now what?’ someone said. I guess they didn’t know that I’d actually collapsed into a heap on the other side of the wall. Or they were worried about what the neighbours would think if they got caught dragging a half-conscious girl doped up on Rohypnol about. Either way, they stood about, muttering and complaining … then they went back in and closed the door behind them.
I waited a little bit in case one of them had stayed outside. Then I got up and clambered around the yard, banging about. I heard someone inside – an old lady, I think, calling out, ‘Who’s that?’
I took no notice. I got out over her wall, then another. I didn’t want to get out into the alley behind the house in case they were waiting there for me. I got into another yard and waited there, just hid and waited there for hours. It felt like hours. Then I got out into the road. I staggered off till I found a hedge. I collapsed under the hedge. Closed my eyes. And passed out.
Hannah
They didn’t look very happy. You can’t blame them. Your child has been booted out of school, and then you get asked into the PRU for a little chat. Not just any PRU either – the PRU where your son has had his balls squashed. Not good news. And he’s not even attending here any more.
But they came. Middle class, decent income. Do anything for their child. You don’t get many like that here. You get a lot of poor kids – their kind of deprivation speaks for itself. Then you get the rich kids. Parents so busy they don’t have time for them. It’s a different sort of neglect, when you can have everything money can buy. But you know what the song says – ‘Money Can’t Buy Me Love’. Well, guess what? It can’t. But, on the whole, middle-class parents tend to bring up their kids pretty well.
‘It’s good of you both to come. I know you don’t have to.’
‘Anything that might help Chris.’ That was Dad.
‘We’ll be honest with you, though, Mrs –’
‘Hannah. Call me Hannah.’
Mum. A social worker. She was used to working out the problems people have, not being told. If I had anything new to say, it was going to hit her right in her pride.
‘We’ve been through pretty well everything there is to go through with Chris already,’ she said.
‘Well, I’ll get straight to the point, then. So if I’m just going over old ground, I won’t be wasting any more of your time. Basically, I think Chris has two issues to deal with.’ They looked up. Surprised. That word – issues. They’d thought they were beyond that.
‘He’s a very stubborn boy,’ said Dad. He paused. ‘Go on, then,’ he said.
‘We know Chris is a bright boy – very bright,’ I said. Start with the easy bit. ‘I know Reedon is a grammar, but it’s not a terribly good one. To tell you the truth, we don’t have many dealings with it, but the reputation is it’s seen better days. Not all that good at picking up on problems …’
‘Both the school and us have been on Chris’s case since he started there,’ said Mum.
‘Yes, well, I know the options for schools round your way aren’t all that great. But the point is I don’t think the school challenges Chris enough. He gets bored. As I say, very bright boy. Highly intelligent. Added to which – well. Just a little dyslexia.’
Pause.
I raised my eyebrows and smiled slightly. I tried not to look patronizing, nervous, amused or smug. They were both staring at me as if I’d just told them that Chris was a mermaid.
‘Chris doesn’t have dyslexia,’ said Mum. ‘He did tests for all that ages ago.’
‘Did he? Where did he do them?’ I asked.
‘At school.’
‘They were all
‘Not like these, then,’ I said, and I whipped out the papers I got him to do.
They looked shocked. Her especially. Social worker, son at fifteen years with undiagnosed dyslexia? Not great.
I rattled through the evidence as they looked over the tests. Avoidance of any sort of reading and writing. Highly intelligent yet slow to produce written work. Forever finding ways of putting it off …
‘Look at this. Look at this,’ said Mum suddenly. She seized her handbag and wrenched it open, producing a beautifully written piece of work. Science.
‘Chris did this the other day when we made him stay in. Look at it. This is good work. No spelling mistakes. Argument, evidence, conclusion. Perfect. Are you seriously telling me this is the work of a dyslexic?’
I looked it over. ‘It’s beautiful, but it’s only one page long. Work at GCSE level should be far longer than that. As for perfect – well, that’s a giveaway, isn’t it? His website is the same. It’s perfect, but he won’t write a word in front of anyone. How come? Because he needs to spend hours checking it up and making sure it’s exactly right. That’s why no one ever sees Chris write.’
‘But the tests he did at school,’ said Dad. ‘When did he do them?’ he asked his wife.
‘Year Eight.’
‘He came through it with flying colours. What about that? You can’t develop dyslexia, can you?’
I pulled a face. ‘Chris has his techniques. He might have got a friend to do them for him. He might have smuggled them out and done them at his leisure …’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Mum.
‘Is it?’ said Dad. ‘After we’ve seen the lengths he’ll go to? Is it?’
‘How did you get him to do them, then?’ demanded Mum.
‘I sat next to him,’ I said. I laughed. ‘Poor Chris, I thought he was going to walk. He hated it so much.’
Mum had gone grey. Dad reached across and took her hand. Nice man. Where was the snorting imbecile Chris had told me about? You know what I thought to myself? You can’t believe a single word that kid tells you. Not one.